Pokémon Mystery Dungeon: Founder of New Ideals
by MisterBland1
Summary: The treecko had no place to be there, in the trenches. His presence owed itself solely to his owner, too scared to go alone, even as one of the 'best'. Unable to handle the blame, he jumps immediately at his one and only chance to get revenge. Yet it was only the beginning to how deep the rabbit hole goes... An original PMD storyline.
1. A Plea for Change

Barbed wire. Ringing that wouldn't stop. A hangover from drinking out the pain of the last charge mingling with present intoxication. Alcohol was a scarcity but so were Allies still capable of drinking it. There was a time, and it was a long nice time ago, where American boys were conservatives and didn't drink in public places, and they were of the Lord and their pokemon were of the Lord and the latter would keep the former in line. They would sit around and chat about insignificant things and inconsequential relationships. And there might be sand shifting under them due to a comfortable sort of fire flickering in the middle of their circle, if they were Jersey boys or Californian boys. Then picking themselves up, they'd tussle over some forgotten argument, and it was just like the war but the wounds were less brutal and the participants were less dead at the end. Unless the pokemon slipped and let the American boys drink; accidents happened then. All of this excessive drinking, thus, once mattered to the American boys. But then: barbed wire. Ringing that wouldn't stop. A hangover from drinking out the pain of the last charge mingling with present intoxication.

The small turrets rotated, and wisps of smoke followed the bottom circle in revolutions. As the boys bent their arms at ninety degrees and their green boots beat down the mud just to inch forward, they all watched the guns. One could easily get caught if they looked at a single port, watching it as it made interminable rounds, spewing uselessly into the now emptied opposing trench. Then, while the hypnotized few thought themselves safe, out of those guns' angles, a stray musket quickly popped up and ended that notion. One by one those with self-control and experience wormed their way forward, refusing to stop, their motive being a firm want to see the other side of the trench, not the other side of what laid at the end of a musket blast. American boys slithered into the enemy trench, falling quickly into the dark pit as if pulled in by a bedtime monster. That was moments before my own arm touched the wire, and my foot pushed two eyes over the edge so they could witness warring, losing companions.

My treecko did his work quickly, and the green vines wrapped around my body. Neither of us wanted to go down there, but the turning point no longer existed- on those docks back in America, strangely more orange than anything over here. Not that it surprised me, to think of how that place could be so orange: orange's a rare color, isolated from troubles like war. Plumes of flame got close, but not close enough. I grab his sides and we fall hard into the muddy bloodied trench. Soldiers are resisting and attacking, and the job is fairly obvious by this point. Kick at knees for standing room. Get up, get close, and find something to shoot or stab with. Grit teeth and win for America. The yell, though, stopped it:

Gas, the Germans yelled. Gas, the Americans cried back. They all stopped fighting and watched the purple mist. Concentrated poison from whatever poison pokemon the depleted sides could get their hands on. The Germans were devastated; the trench further back thought of this trench as lost and launched the attack. The masks glistened like tiny black candies all over the various pegs, and carried a message. A message, that the supplies of the trench were untenable to both forces.

I'll tell you right now what it _should have been._ The strong should have gotten the masks, my treecko and I should have gotten a mask. The green face was small but shaped like a human head, and could be comfortably equipped. As a matter of fact, we did get masks. My treecko looked like a strange, alien bug. He was a new type of pokemon with that mask on, a mix of nature and mechanics.

Baos. That's the bastards name. I remember it because each day in this facility is another day his name appears in a torn journal by my bed. His black boot kicked down my treecko, stole his damned mask, and it wasn't because he was stronger- it was because he was _meaner._ I, I swear to god. He could have stolen it back but he didn't. Just came over to me and hugged on and tried to breath malignant fatigues instead of air. Those _fucking_ eyes... little beady, pathetic things peeking from the mask Baos stole. Are you glad now, Baos? My treecko was slumped over by the third minute of the passing- the gas lasted for six. Why did you just let that German have the mask, Plee? Take my mask, then. He wouldn't. Only gasped into the linen, hugging me like I'm a child. A child... who had no place to bring his childhood friend and get him killed.

As the Germans would say, _"Unser Leben unserer chaotischen es sei denn, man wirft ihren Körper in den Keilen."_

Our lives are chaotic unless one throws their body into the wedges. That stops the gears. I'll show Baos why that mask belonged to the strong. My duty to America said that it wasn't time, to keep my head down after becoming a turncoat. But that wasn't possible anymore. There were attempts made to stay true to it, but each one failed with the same amount of fury. It was Plee's mask, Baos. Plee, it was your mask. Go get it! Don't shake your head at me. Go and grab the mask Plee. Grab the beetle mask and transform yourself into a machine. Don't lay down now. You feel heavier when you are dead; did you exert yourself to take weight off of me? Plee? Plee? You're gone and the bastard is still looking at me. _Unser Leben unserer chaotischen es sei denn, man wirft ihren Körper in den Keilen, _Baos. Goodbye. Today you die.

I pick up the luger in front of me. It's a lot heavier with the drum mag on it, and I'll have to keep it in the large bag that will be slung over my shoulder. That is, if this plan gets further than the front doors to the secret lab Baos is working at. I'm sure that no one would question top operative for the German intelligence, but you can never be too safe when planning a single-man coup. The schwarzlose in the right hand was tiny, held a sixth of what the luger did with its box. But it was incredibly tiny and would fit in my front breast pocket. The dignified gait I gave my persona demanded that a hand be kept on it. It would keep me safe if there were questions.

Then, came the bag. Four more ammo drums- one never knows what can happen. Some boxes for the schwarzlose and reserves for the zig-zag tied around my leg. grenades with long strings tied about their pin, which were hell to obtain and create but worth it, since preliminary examinations revealed doors that could be locked. Doors that could be locked became advantages with explosives. The loud explosion, the enemy watching their defense go to smithereens in a weak smoke cloud, demoralized them far more than a man walking in with a few pistols.

It was going to be a good day for me, watching this man and his little project die. Pokemon researcher, my ass. Research what poison did to Plee's lungs, you idiot. Exiting my small dormitory, I heft the bag over my shoulder and start the walk to the doors. They're all looking at the bag, and a little bit at the man carrying it. They see the determined American face and know its the defector. They back off. A single question would have gotten them written up for prying into a spy's missions and duties. A bad policy to have when a double-agent is about.

The place is dull and grey, boring and utilitarian, gated and hellish. It annoys me; I haven't seen decent art or architecture since I left America. Would the chance ever present itself now? Maybe luck continued to haunt the dead, making things spontaneously happen where the person would be if they were still on the Earth. Someday after this, I bet, a painter's work will fall from the sky and land right outside my old quarters. Some things are more important, I have to tell myself.

The inside of the place is a clean white. A general stand tall near the door, talking to the guard at the front desk. The desk to the right has a single guard as well. A linoone sleeps under the right one, but it appears that the front has no pokemon assistance. Good. Ever since Plee, the idea of bringing pokemon into a war sickens me. They don't understand survival as much as humans do. A saving grace for their soul, but not for their lives. The general is walking up to me now, he isn't afraid since that distinguished outfit makes him my superior. I am violating dress code by wearing a nice suit instead of fatigues. Who the hell cared what I dressed in anymore? Well, they would find out why soon, I figured.

"Ihr Outfit? Wo ist es? Erklären Sie sich!" He wants me to explain myself. Ha.

Maybe later, when acts of violence started to make sense. I'll start then, you pompous, German, shit. Actually, that sounds good. Let's tell him that:

"Maybe later, when acts of violence started to make sense. I'll start then, you pompous, German, shit." Using good ol' American felt refreshing. Well, it is technically English, but I call it American because it was said with my accent. The disciplinary stick is coming at me. Fantastic; time to start making my way to that bastard Baos.

I get blood all over my suit, since I had the stupid idea of ducking under and bringing my small pistol to his throat. Actually, it is a good idea, since the heavy bag would have made it hard to move back. I'm just upset about the outfit. The bag is heavy but not too heavy to toss, and the guard to the left feels about seventy pounds of weight assisted by momentum slam into him. The guard in front of me fumbles about his sheathed sidearm for half a second before a second shot rings out in the room. The linoone is awake now- a light sleeper, I guess. The only limit set on this little death-wish-slash-revenge-spree is that pokemon would be spared. Killing them was sick, and it would make me a terrible hypocrite, now wouldn't it? Still, gunshots rarely ever broke a pokemon's tough skin, so one to the leg didn't hurt my chances.

Good fucking Arceus, the guard in the left counter is a terrible soldier. How long did it take for him to pull out a gun? Three, maybe four seconds? That is laughable- thank heaven that most of these incompetent men can hide behind a trench. Bam. That was shot number four flying into his neck. Plop. None of the pokemon here are owned by the soldiers, they're only rentals. Lucky for me, or else I would be morally obligated to find a way through here without shedding blood. Ew. The politics that would involve. No politics in grabbing that heavy bag and kicking my way through the doors into the facility.

Enter hallway. Two guards with machine guns. Are they going to fire them? No? This must be a training exercise or something, because this was getting to be a little easy. A growlithe's ears prick up as the schwarzlose emptied and bodies dropped. And... they prick down as the zig-zag comes flying out of the wrapping around my leg. Ouch. That hind-leg was going to be out of commission for a while. An arcanine replaces it and charges me, curving around the hallway like a hell-hound. That's a problem; there wasn't a way to incapacitate it- angles are all off.

People are always afraid that if pokemon started trying to kill us all _en masse_, that we couldn't fight back without weapons. Stupid arguments for those who hate the ban on advanced weapon technology. Obviously, if that was true, the arcanine wouldn't be yelping as I help stretch its jaws. Using its speed, I send it spinning through the doors. I promptly lock the two doors and jump back. Flames are coming through the small peeking windows like a prolonged explosion. Fire bad- or so says the monstrous part of me that was at a body count of five people, none of which were Baos. Another shot from the revolver and those doors are jammed. More guards were coming, and to prepare for them, I prepared for the path ahead. The main testing room is a left, right, left again, and finally through the doors- they will be locked by that time, sadly.

A leaf almost cuts my head off as I'm going down that first left. Not good. The next foe appears: a soldier and an assigned victreebel. Where do you hit a victreebel to stop it? Right in its courage, of course. But first, I need to get back behind the wall before my head pops off like a balloon. This German is actually shooting, and that meant the element of surprise was no longer making these trained soldiers look like untrained clowns. Whatever, I have a box clip on this luger in my bag, and my shoulder is getting sore. Time to lighten the load for the rest of my short pilgrimage. I set down the bag and get real close to the wall and just begin spamming shots down range. Eventually a cry sounds, and the grass type is marching forward. I quickly unzip the large bag and get out a grenade.

Gulp. It swallows it, and the lifeline is in this crazy human's hands. I hold it victoriously.

"You know what you just swallowed, right?" I ask it. It nods. Hooray.

Pokemon amaze me with their ability to understand human language. It made this gambit work, and saved the operation.

"Good." I tug lightly, making the string less slack. The horrified victreebel follows me like its on a leash. The dead foe gives me a look of contempt- or whatever conveys "I'm dead and you killed me" best. Now, to grab the electric prod that soldiers kept in case their assigned units got rowdy. Once that's in my hand, I worm the grenade out of the poor pokemon's body, and shock it once the small fragmentary is dislodged. Not too shabby, but if another soldier had come and forced me into action... kaboom! It's sick how distant I am from all of this, but the temptation of killing Baos is too much.

I grab my bag and I'm off down the hallways. It isn't too far, now, and the guards seem to think that I'm either dead or tired. But as the main doors, the doors holding Baos, come into my view, so does a German in a protective orange suit. Shit. Acid armor that'd stop bullets, with a poison pokemon that did it probably waiting for me up near the small rectangular lights. The bag goes up and over the head, like a shield blocking a rain of medieval arrows. But only teeth find their way into the bag as the acid-covered man opens fire. I'm done for; there was no way to get this seviper off my bag and I.

Wow. Fuck me. Six shots from his handgun, and they all missed. Arceus has blessed me on my mission, I guess. Not only that, he somehow managed to hit his seviper. It wasn't good- the shot hit the head of the poor thing. But before I could worry about the unwanted casualty, I have a luger with twenty-four shots that need unloading. Orange-man is charging at me like the boogey-man.

Bang,bang,bang,bang,bang,bang,bang... crack. And done. The doors are right there but I take a moment to check the seviper for signs of life. The creature is breathing, but its skull is cracked and is in too much agony to care about the fact it's alive. Instead, eyes communicate pleas to me. Plee. I know, begging seviper. That you probably still respect that orange-man you covered in acid armor. Plee didn't respect Baos, but he respected that the mask had been taken away, and that's what a human wanted. He was too tired of fighting as well. It takes a shots, but my zig-zag mercifully finishes the job the pokemon's partner started. Like I said at the beginning of this spree, a single pokemon dying in a gunfight felt worse than seven human casualties. Humans were supposed to die in wars. Pokemon were supposed to have good-willed battles. Simple as that. I pull out the now saliva-covered grenade and place it by the locked double-doors to the main room. I step back a good distance and pull the string.

Boom. Baos is in that room. That very confidential room that had so much black paint and hushed details about it, I almost felt like I was doing my American duty.

A pool of water is glowing blue inside of it, and _rumbling_ as if it is trying to tell me something. I'll save that for later- finally, Baos, up above taking out a gun. The gun in his hand flies away, sliding across the catwalk above this odd sight. Don't mess with an angry angel of death and his zig-zag. Or his treecko. God, I miss Plee so much every day. It hurts. Why did Baos have to take him away with his greediness and abuse of pokemon scruples? I walk up the catwalk, pushing my revolver into his face. I don't even have the patience to set down the bag.

"Ah," he says, "you must be wond'ring what this is." His English, his American, is terrible. It always has been.

"No."

"Then you want other information? What's got you Allies so desperate, this close to the end of the war?"

"No."

"Methinks an answer more than 'no', would be appropriate."

"No." My voice is trembling, but I'm trying to hold it back. It is from my fury, but he'll see it as fear. "You're not allowed to speak." Is my voice shaking from anger? Maybe the waviness is anticipation, or that anxiety one gets when the goal is so close that every minute detail threatened to ruin it. Taking all attention away from the surroundings and placing it into the goal, and messing everything up because of it. What did I care? A platoon would be outside waiting for me, or is already on their way. I'm a dead man with no chance to escape.

Baos knows this. He moves away from the edge of the catwalk. It lacks railings, and that seems dangerous with this odd blue water floating around. The stupid researcher looks a little desperate to finish whatever this creation does. "So you want my life. This is very unfortunate... especially after this creation. Want to know what it is?"

I stare at him. My voice is wobbly but the gun isn't. I've won! This guy was going to pay for Plee's death. Three minutes of airless purple hell... Baos should consider his death lucky. I'll have time, even when the guards storm through the door; no reason to get it over with just yet. "Fine. You've got thirty seconds."

That really brought his mood up. What a hopeless fellow. "We have analyzed certain liquids, which have been found near sites of legendary pokemon, and have successfully mixed them in this pool. Have you ever heard of the world beyond our own, with only pokemon in it?"

Fifteen seconds on the clock still, but I shove the gun into his mouth anyway. "You don't have a single fucking ounce of business getting into that. You let Plee die... you in a world with only pokemon? That's a joke."

"It was a war-zone." I am so happy his head would have a wind tunnel in it soon. "This rumbling... may be that it is ready to open the portal up again. We have sent one through at the start of the war, and it took many reserves. Now we have collected enough of this facilitating agent to power it up another time. With that-

"Times up." Baos's face, how priceless it is right now. Totally thought that I would start sitting down and contemplating alternate universes. Unlike most scientists, I have priorities. The man was now frantic, finally realizing there was no way out of this.

The scientist tries one more time. "There was a gas-mask right next to you," he started. A _guilt trip_. No one would be able to say this man was a great psychologist at his funeral. "It is your own fault."

He winces as the gun enters his mouth. "I loved that pokemon. From America to the front, all the way. That's how far Plee was my friend in arms. Without him, I'd be twitching like all the other other unlucky infantry units. And you killed him. And now, at the climax of your consequences, you try and assume that I don't remember that terrible moment like it was yesterday? Fuck. Goodbye, Baos."

"_Totodile!"_ No! I turn my head instinctively and miss the final action, the big finale. The zig-zag goes off for the fifth time this faithful day. Baos falls, and when I turn my head to him... looks like Hell's arms are dragging him down. Right into the ground. Good riddance. Now, the only issue was firstly, finding out what this totodile's next move was going to be, and secondly... dying in a hail of glorious gunfire.

Then it hits me. Of course. I've broken the cardinal rule I set for this endeavor. Just like Baos stole Plee from me I've stolen Baos from this totodile. I tried hard, but it still came out to be, as always, an eye for an eye. The thing gave a low whine, looking down at the dead master. This is what that prick was waiting for. It makes me mad thinking about it. That disgusting man with a pokemon who loves him enough to cry. Plee couldn't cry because his face congested from the poison, and I cried, but the mask blocked it. This is unfair.

It turns to me, claws out, almost like it's presenting what I did as if I'm a bad dog. The low whine becomes a maddening squeal and a choking sob. I could shoot it with the last shot in this zig-zag, but didn't feel like it. Felt like giving this totodile the final laugh, as a sort of apology for the way war is played. Getting ready for the end, I sling the bag up on my shoulder. The rumbling is quite loud, now. How odd that this portal between worlds doesn't even matter to me. The totodile's gone to blubbering now. The eyes want to pierce mine, and I let them. Let him see that I had a fucking motive. Plee, are you happy? Fuck, I, what did I just do? Eight people and one pokemon dead. Fucking hell... I became a monster. All because of Baos.

I open my arms wide, like I'm waiting for a hug. I toss the revolver into the bag. "Well come on, you little shit! Come and get a piece of me!"

A second invitation isn't needed nor possible; the totodile shrieks and flies at my throat. Instead of clawing it out, the claws, white as ivory, surround my neck. It wants me to suffer. Thinking cruelly already. War is like a drug, and poison is the detox. Example: Plee. His name is just a sound to me, now. We hit the glowing blue water below, now, and the bag is keeping us near the surface. The contorted face of rage throttles me, but I try to focus on the rumbling's crescendo, not on the growing pain.

I was an American boy, once. America asked that boy, who scored so high on the exams, if he'd like to be a field agent. Get to know a pokemon ally, become friends, and infiltrate the German force. Simple: the boy and his pokemon surrendered during their first battle in the war. Defected. Used their skills to get out of the war prisoner cells and into the laps of the generals. But the pokemon died and the boy suffered, and he ended up naming himself Azrael. Archangel of death. It was emotional, and stupid, but I am Azrael. Or I was. Things are fading out now, and the rumbling is very bad. This is it.

A treecko. Plee, you're the last thing I'll see. I did something very bad for you, but it felt good. To be honest, the boy in me is very scared that I'll soon be with you. You'll be angry, and we'll be dead.

I wish you had taken my mask.


	2. A Change of Coordinates

Some people imagine that Arceus always breathes down the neck of everyone in the world, and that no matter how small you scrunched yourself up, he'd always see the naughty and the nice and the fine line between them. I rarely ever buy into crap like that. Color me conceited, but I always considered myself a good enough agent to avoid the peering eyes of gods, deities, and fuck-all floating around in the 'new frontier'. In the hierarchy of credibly fairy-tales, the list rose from clefairy to greater beings to all-powerful gods. No one entity has the time to judge some insignificant revenge story in a decrepit military base.

Yet here I am... getting punished... staring at _Plee's _hands, once so frequently put to use in exploring and climbing. The ramifications of my tiny spree are so _personal_, so fucking specific it makes me sick and angry; why, out of all those really committing acts of horror, did I get such a consequence, the transformation into the pokémon who befriended me on my seventh Christmas? It's not even entirely figurative when I promise how much I've been tortured, and it leaves a silly feeling in my strange-ass treecko gut to use the word 'torture' for my feelings.

I'm such a self-pitying freak of nature. So much so, that I pity how pitiful my pitying is. Damn it all. After all of this time, I realize that I'm not breathing, and I let out a slow breath. That seems to seal this new punishment, because my body suddenly finds itself a victim to cold Winter weather and weariness. My green body is slippery from all the melting snow. Flakes shine in the bleak winter sun, and it is all too authentic. I have really become... Plee? What does it all mean, and why did the water bring me here?

Lucky for me, I know how a treecko composes itself. Years of seeing Plee dance walk and fight has taught me enough to put balance under my feet. All those things he can't do anymore rushed back to me like they did the first few weeks after I lost him. No crying now, though- not until I know what is going on. My limbs argue that they aren't long enough, and I hope my body doesn't treat it like an amputation and throw me into shock. A few more wobbles, and all systems are ready for takeoff; everything enters focus, and I exit from my stupor and onto a ledge, my body leaning over the cliff.

That's a pretty good wake up call. "Shit!" I cough out, dropping to my ass like a child learning how to walk. Wincing as I do, I slowly scoot away from the edge, to a place where I may gaze out at the amazing view without falling into it. "Shit," I breathe again. This time, for an entirely different reason. Sometimes, one can only pay homage to an amazing thing with a cuss word.

Ever hear of the phrase '_winter wonderland'? _A few photos of this view and I would be starting up my own damned postcard business. A reddish-brown rock laid underneath this snow, so I assume that this place has extreme highs and lows. "Hot summers, cold winters," I think out loud, trying to figure out my position. "China? Try American... try familiar... Wyoming? Gallatin Range... 45° degrees and nineteen seconds North 110 degrees, fifty minutes and twelve seconds West. Start from around the center of Germany..." I don't think I can quite manage that one, even if I got lucky with remembering the coordinates of Gallatin Range- all thanks to my dad. A real explorer type. "Fuck," I sigh, trying to rub warmth into my confounded hands, "what is it?"

"_Around_ e_ight thousand and fifty two kilometers to the Northeast, you disgusting bastard!"_ A shrill voice screams out. Now this truly transforms into a nightmare. That little totodile, who pushed me into the water that had me over eight-thousand kilometers from Germany and in Plee's body, now stood before me. Not only can I see his sorrow, I must now listen to it as well.

We did not arrive alone, because in his trembling claws the barrel of the zig-zags stares straight at me, ready to spit fire. He should stop crying before the tears freeze to his face.

I feel sick to my stomach. All the confusion keeps me busy for only so long, and my mind processes what I did to the little blue totodile without any semblance of mercy. Plee's body or not, I'm a sick creature who may just deserve whatever wounds the gun has left to dole out. Self-pity, I notice, sounds more and more reasonable as time goes on. "Arceus," the small thing sobs maniacally, "you shot him! H-h-his head... the back of it... _agh! W-why? Ba-oo-s!" _

"Don't bother asking why," I recommend, looking back out at the beautiful blankets of snow. In the far distance, I see the makings of a large empire. Since when did this large, bright, colorful city arrive in Wyoming? Maybe this really is heaven, because I cannot imagine my father's review on the place- although exciting- being this grand. Regardless, it beat looking at the totodile- that causes guilt to rise up in my chest. Painful, painful guilt. "This is a territory I'm familiar with."

The totodile whines. "_You're dumb! This is not the Gallatin Range!" _He shouts. I'm pretty sure he just wants to unleash his anger and frustration, so I let the young totodile vent out to his heart's content before he puts me down. "I know the typical wind statistics for all fifty American states, and for most countries around the world, too! This is nothing like Wyoming. Why did someone like you get past all the doors? Why did you hurt Baos? _Tell me why!_"

I have to admit: I'm fairly impressed. "Really, kid?" I ask suspiciously. "Montevideo, Uruguay."

"No! I don't negotiate with k-killers!" I feel bad for making the kid scream, but at least the obnoxious stubbornness helps me think he is less hurt than he really is. Yet that all changes when he drops the gun and curls up, sobbing like a lost kid. How young is this totodile, anyway? How fast can Baos corrupt something. For me, three minutes... the totodile can range from a newborn to ten years old, and my specific knowledge on pokémon is of no help. American totodiles are either too rare to be found or already domesticated, ruining any pattern of aging they once had.

Call me greedy, but I don't want to live with it. Maybe that's my punishment; Arceus, or Dialga- pick your poison- wants me to be the one who decides that he should die. "Fine," I say out loud. For some reason, the steps I take towards the totodile are cautious, like I'm worried about getting shot. It hurts to kneel down so close to him, hearing him silently ask _why_ again and again. He's lost- all my fault... "fuck! Kid, tell me the shitting wind speed in Montevideo and I'll let you kill me, okay? You can shove the zig-zag right into my mouth and-"

"Eight to t-ten meters per second," the sly creature whispers, rising back up to his full height. A spark of determination flares in his eyes, and I begin to wonder if this is the right thing to be teaching the young totodile. But since when do I fucking care? All of this silliness... none of it changes the fact that I was destined to die in that laboratory, surrounded by guards. Trading away my life for some shitty tidbit about the weather? Hell, I would pay the little guy, as long as this just _ends. _My knees smack the soft, snowy ground as I close my eyes, waiting for that final impact. The small gun clicks, priming itself gleefully. "I... _I hate you!_"

Suddenly, my salvation is being lifted off of his feet, wailing and crying out the entire way. The toughest-looking krookodile I've ever seen plucks up the small totodile, curiosity almost cracking his gruff, callous face. "Now, what do we have here?" He asks, inspecting the writhing, sobbing totodile in his grasp. "Young'un, _hate_ is a strong word, and y'all better not be trying to resolve this violently. That's, uh, gimme a minute, now. There's a name for this... affray! Y'all stop affraying this instant. Or I'll start affraying, and I do a mean affray- what is that on the ground under ya, totodile?"

This pokémon is straight out of the boondocks, and even against this totodile's prodigal knowledge of the weather, I put another point on this being Wyoming. "_A gun!" _He screams back to his larger reptilian counterpart, "_it hurts others b-badly, and he killed my master!" _

A scowl swept over the krookodile's face faster than the dust bowl. "Pokémon don't have no masters, young'un, and I wouldn't let anyone catching you spreading that around." He tosses down the totodile and picks up the gun. "I'd put poké down that the trigger here makes it go... and something comes out- something along the lines of nasty. Pretty silly... don't we pokémon got enough ways to be killing each other? You don't look brainwashed... but there is still no way you climbed this far up the mountain."

"_No, no no!" _Like a bully holding a smaller kid's cap above his head, the krookodile keeps the little child from grabbing the zig-zag. I'm more curious about being brainwashed. Maybe this krookodile acts as the first sign of my mind's corruption, telling me to flee back into reality before I drown in the pit of water. I write this off as being a little too ridiculous, however. "_He killed master, and now I have to kill him back!" _

"Ha, _kill me back_?" I grunt out, entertained. It turns awkward, because the krookodile said something alone the same lines, yet as a whole treats the situation as it ought to be treated: disgusting and out-of-place. "He had something along the lines of a master," I admit.

The krookodile sighs heavily. "All of this business gives me a really bad headache," he grunts. "Poor six-year-old totodile must feel mighty bad. So I think, just in 'the name of balance' or so-they-say, I'll let the little guy choose who gets the blindfold, and who gets knocked out. I only got one bandana in this bag, and I can't have to seeing how I get in."

Six years old... why wouldn't it all just stop? Something within me prayed for the impossible chance for the totodile to choose to be knocked out. The cold, the biting freeze of the stone as this krookodile drags me back to wherever he came from... it will distract me from all the implications of this little creature being six. More than a master, that disgusting scientist was this pokémon's father. To think... a simple switch from master to father would have won him the sympathy of the gruff red crocodile... why am I so unlucky?

I look up to see that the totodile, as expected, sobs away as the krookodile puts the blindfold over his eyes. "Do you mind telling me where we are?" I ask as the krookodile towers of my kneeling treecko body.

"Swing Valley, home of the largest rebellion Orchidia's ever seen. Welcome." Everything goes back to black as a firmly closed claw crashes into my face.


	3. A Change of Direction

"Don't wake up. No one wants you here. Die already."

Well, that's quite the welcome. My head is pounding from getting the short end of the kidnapping stick, and it looks like none of my old problems have left. Moments like these? They really suck. At the very least, I'll be remembering everything I did in a warmer, moldy-smelling location. It reminds me of some of the first prison camps being built in Siberia. Torture on the inside, frostbite on the outside. Painful all over.

Rubbing my head, I slowly get up from my spot on the ground. I am right about this being a prison, but our captors don't have us in chains against the wall just yet. Moving on to my eyes, I finally see the disappointed totodile in front of me. "Trust me kid," I sigh, "I'm trying."

He can't even stand to look at me. If Plee stood in front of me I'd never take me eyes off of him, but that's me. I remember, eight years ago, prying open the lid to a large box and finding him cramped up inside of it. I couldn't help but tell my parents that the presentation was a little fucking cruel (in ten-year-old lingo, of course) but they assured me that he wasn't in there long.

And he was fairly happy to see me, anyway. If the war never sprung up... I'd still be with my uncle in Kanto, a neutral pokémon region located halfway between Japan and the Hawaiian islands. Like all other places of pokémon origin, they are officially protected by independent military units. My uncle would have helped me train Plee and take him to gyms at first, but by fifteen Kanto's countryside is safe enough if you don't fuck around in tall grass or bike around the various routes at night. That's how safe this military force, Kanto's inhabitants and Kanto's pokémon in combined forces, made their region.

Stuff like that inspires desperate armies, and four years after I traveled to Kanto, war broke out. All I wanted was to go on a fucking journey with Plee, but the moment America saw how effective trainers could be, they waved my birth certificate in front of uncle's face and drafted me. I wanted my journey so bad, I thought that putting our all into it would get me out. Plee and I had a tough life in training... it brought us so close. My best friend...

"Well try a little harder, okay?" He demanded.

"Fuck!" I didn't mean to snap and make him shrink away, but I'm slowly becoming soft. I made it an entire year without Plee, and now- and now it's our anniversary. Our anniversary is on my birthday. I laugh, shaking my head. "It's my nineteenth birthday, today." Silence. He probably cares not that I almost have a reason for killing his master. "Uh, what's your name?"

While waiting for the totodile to recover from me snapping at him, I investigate the room holding us. It's an office, with a small mat and a hard surface, probably for writing. The door... the door is _wide open_. Minimum security at its highest possible finest. What am I still doing here? The krookodile told me that this was Swing Valley 'home of the most rootin-tootin rebellion this side of the-' okay, it wasn't quite like that. But _damn_, that is a hell of an accent the krookodile's got going for himself.

Since painless revenge no longer looked possible, I had to create a new game plan. Firstly, I need to perform my most daring escape yet and walk through this open door. And then, I'll fare through Swing Valley, trek across Orchidia (also known as Wyoming) and enter that colorful town. Get put into a pound, or adopted by a runaway child. And finally, pray that my intelligence slowly diminishes while living on Easy Street.

Yet, before I can make this all reality, the totodile is ready to speak, a few nervous _eh_'s preceding what he's trying to say. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he warns, shaking his head. "Pulp told me to tell you that the moment any citizen of Swing City sees you trying to escape, they'll tear you limb to limb."

I chuckle. "Little guy, I'm top operative- I mean, ex-operative- for the German army. Do you really think I'll get captured?"

He scowls, his eyes brimming with tears again. Thank Arceus there is no spilled milk or dropped hats in the room. Why am I so good at making the poor thing cry? A side-effect of my training, maybe. "Y-you idiot! Look at where we are. St-stone walls, crafted doors... you're not in Wyoming! A-and let's say you get out into the city," he sobs, "what then? They'll smell you, they'll outsmart you... you're not a pokémon- it's an entirely different game, now."

Shit. This totodile is too smart for his own damned good; unless this place was captured by the pokémon rebellion, 'Pulp' and his allies in the rebellion built all of this. Orchidia. It cannot possibly be, but everything so far points to this world being dominated by pokémon. No city could go by unnoticed, especially one without any humans. "Okay," I breathe, feeling a little bit trapped, "I'm not ready for another dimension."

The sobbing on the other side of the room stops. "What's a matter?" The little thing taunts. "Well... it looks like even monsters can come to fear, when their big tools are stripped away."

I don't know why, but some hidden threshold in my mind got breached by his words. I feel fatigued and stuck. "I'm not a monster," I try to argue. Apprehension takes a hold of me before I can resist, turning whatever facade I had left into putty for the totodile to play with.

"_You are!" _He screams. "_You killed Baos!" _

"I did. And he killed Plee, my greatest friend."

"_Like you could even care for someone else! You killed Baos for fun, and you're too scared to admit it now that the tables have turned! There isn't an on and an off switch for your morals, bastard! I won't let you pretend to have emotions now._"

My eyes shoot up, and I am the most pissed I've been in a really long time. "I _loved_ Plee, you snotty shit. Take that back."

The damned totodile should back down before I do something I regret. He doesn't. "No, no you didn't. You're not capable of love. I k-know because I loved Baos, and you took him away. Logically, that isn't something one knowledgeable of love is capable for doing."

"I didn't even know you existed, Arceus. Look, just quit it."

But he likes seeing the stone-faced killer hurt. "You... you were excited when Plee died. That way, you had an excuse to kill Baos- _ah! Stop! Stop!"_

No one talks about Plee this way. Using my new, green arm, I drive the totodile up the wall, pressing deep into his neck. His eyes wide with surprise that I actually went on the offensive, he kicks and struggles frantically. Far too weak to stop me... time goes on and no one enters. I close myself out to the raspy cries for help, just another mission. Gradually, the kicks and the squirming weaken.

Six years old. Plea's body. I'm so fucking disgusted in myself, as always. But now it has gotten worse... I'm not sure I want to go on like this. I think of ripping myself off of the choking totodile, but don't. Instead, I ease him to ground, easing my arm off of his throat so that he can breathe again. It was about time that I tried to start helping things. I'm in another world, and I'm not in my body. I can't just keep asking for either me or my problems to die.

I plant my hands on his chest and slowly help him cough his way through it. Once he can breathe, I assume that he'll be wanting to cry and get some assistance with the psychotic killer in the room with him. He really does surprise me. After a few seconds of panicked gasping, he looks at me curiously. "I... I was wondering why you didn't just kill me on the cliff. I would have never beat you, even with that gun. Why would you attack me now?"

Without the totodile yelling harsh things at me, I am finally able to think reasonably. "No, kid, I didn't. I just wanted him to pay for hurting Plea. And when you say bad stuff about Plea and me, that makes me want to hurt you too. Does that make sense?"

With a grunt, the totodile rose up to his feet. "Stop using words like bad and hurt. I may be six... but I'm not very innocent." Especially after his most recent incident. "My name is Spondee. Baos liked English poems that make use of a spondee." It feels good to finally know his name. Spondee seems to have ran out of tears, and chose instead to stare at me, eyes dry, questioning, and upset. "That... that reasoning doesn't make any sense. B-but I can see why you would want to do that to someone you hate. Did it make you feel better?"

"Absolutely not," I decide without hesitation- or better yet, _before_ I can hesitate.

"T-then stop trying to make me kill you." Spondee averts his eyes finally, and walks towards the door, playing with the hinges. "I don't want to be as sad as you. You're sadness is so silly. Like a clown that makes everyone laugh instead of cry."

It's about fucking time to start trying to do things a different way- try a new approach. "I know, Spondee. Do you think you can help me?"

He turns to me with a dulled curiosity. "Help you what?"

"Help me figure out why I am so sad," I say. "You were Baos's assistant right? You're very, very smart and he'd..." it takes me a second not to retch on my next words. "He would be proud of how good of a little scientist you've become. I was really impressed that you know the wind speed in Montevideo."

"T-thank you." Even in a time and a place like this, Spondee can't resist blushing at a compliment.

"So, how about you figure out the source of my sadness?" I already know the answer to this experiment... but it gave him a purpose other than killing me. "And when you figure it out, you'll know why Baos died."

He lets out a shuddering breath and goes back to playing with the door. "I can't ever forgive you for what you did; like I said, your morals aren't something you can simply turn on and off." So perceptive... I refuse to believe Baos taught him to be so piercing with observations. I wouldn't be surprised if he really does manage to uncover something dark about me. Why am I so hopeful about a fucking six year old playing Freud with me? ""But I'll do it, for B-Baos. And because... because... no one deserves to not get a present on their birthday. Even you."

I think Spondee tells me that he is going off to tell krookodile this news, so that it can influence whatever incarceration we're headed towards. I don't know for sure, because I am currently too busy getting smashed by pieces by the little totodile's motives. A _birthday present_... my uncle had other things to be doing, and I didn't want to bother him- it's a long story. And, of course, who is going to bring you gifts while you're receiving special training? I didn't even have a post box.

This dingy office... I'm receiving my first birthday present in over nine years in here. I'm just so stunned... to be the happiest I've been in Arceus knows how long. Throwing my arms over my head, I try to capture the good moment and commit it to memory.


	4. A Change of Location

"H-hey, put me down! Put me down!" Spondee wails, swinging himself about as Pulp carries him back into the room. I don't get why the totodile is so pissed off; what else did he expect? "I demand proper treatment! _Habeas Corpus! Actori incumbit probatio! __Innocent before proven guilty!" _With a heavy, exasperated sigh, Pulp sets him down.

Something's on his nerves, but it luckily isn't the totodile or me. "Listen, young'un," Pulp mutters, "I simply ain't in the superstitious mood. Magic spells or no, no one ought- especially a youngster like you- run around when an authority tells him to stay put." Using his sharp claws, he peels off a piece of the open door and sticks it in his mouth. I was too preoccupied before with how open the door was to see the gnawed-off area above the doorknob. Not only is this unsanitary, he's going to get quite a few splinters.

Spondee growls at me, as if this is somehow all my fault. Speaking of faults, I realize I'm in deep shit when the krookodile spots the growing bruise on his neck. "Hey!" He snaps, looking at me, "where in the hell did that bruise come from? Of all the low things! I swear to Arceus, if you've been abusing him while I was away trying to accommodate you..."

I thought that our previous conversation would at the very least warrant some help from Spondee, but the little fucker nods. Well, actually... it doesn't matter what he thinks; I still attacked him. Not wanting to start a fight with the sheriff, I simply duck down and make guesses on which parts of me hurt the most when hit.

"Wait!" Spondee shouts finally. He can't experiment on damaged goods. "I led him on. The bruise is my fault... he isn't in the best mental state right now. But I hate him, so it made me feel good. I'd do it again!" Unlike every other trial in my life, I stupidly half-expected this one not to be an uphill battle. But at they very least, Spondee doesn't want to kill me- something that those in the therapy business call 'baby steps' or something.

Thank Arceus he stepped in, though. I was only a second away from learning why they call the krookodile Pulp. He considers following through anyway, but backs off. I wince as he cracks the large wooden splinter in half and swallows it. "Kid, you only got one neck. Don't go getting it broken for fun." A red arm waves for us to come to the door as he snaps off another piece of the door.

"Here's the deal, you two," he mumbles though the piece. "My first deputy tells me that- am I doing something wrong here, Treecko?" What the hell did I do?! I then realize I've been giving him odd looks ever since he put the next piece in his mouth. Trying to be as blasé as human... as physically possible, I nod my head up, hoping that it's enough to get my point across. "Oh, the door?" He confirms. I nod cautiously. "Winter's about, Treecko. Rations can get slim and we'd lose prisoners to starvation, if pokémon like me didn't cut their royalties. I can live off of eating wood, so every winter I just eat doors. Then, we replace them next season."

Spondee looks up to the krookodile, awe in his eyes. "You live off of wood while doing sheriff work?" I expect something along the lines of a medical diatribe on needing to eat things that are... not wood. Instead, the little totodile jumps up to the krookodile. "You're... you're just like Buckshot John- so tough! Are there lots of bad pokémon that you have to arrest?"

Not sure how to react, Pulp swallows again and grins. "Buck shot John?"

"No," Spondee exclaims, "_Buckshot! _Buckshot comes out of shotguns, and it spreads really wide!"

A serious and wary expressions takes over the krookodile's face as he rips a chunk off the door. "So that's what the brainwashing bastards are cooking up now. Shotguns, huh? Is that the thing I confiscated on the lookout cliff?"

We are about to be labeled enemies of the rebellion, and I have no interest being a war prisoner. "You've got it all wrong," I tell him quickly, "we aren't brainwashing bastards."

"Eeyup. You're brain_washed_ bastards. Ain't a doubt in my mind."

"We _ain't_ that either!" I yell. Damn sheriff's rubbing off on me a little too much. "Listen, we came from-"

"Whether or not we have been brainwashed, we don't know," Spondee says quietly. "All I remember is that he killed my master. We, uh, talked about this while you were with the deputy. Please believe me, we don't have information on your enemies!" For a split second I almost buy into this, but then I realize he's _lying._ I should already know this by now, but it just goes to show how manipulative this little guy is. In fact, Spondee seems smart, durable, raised to be malleable... he'd make a great field-agent, back in our world.

We'll take it how he wants to; I nod fervently, trying to convey fake confusion. This poor sheriff slumps down a bit, closing his eyes. "Fine then. I'll believe that you mean no harm, and I'll _pretend_ to believe that you know nothing about anything. And in return, you'll be well-behaved when I take you to an alternative cell. Do we have a deal?"

I like those terms, and that one totodile who hates me does too. "Y'all got a fine deal, Buckshot Pulp!" I'm gradually losing my mind- this diamond of a response sort of just... slipped out.

He snaps off more of the door and sticks it in his mouth. "You ever call me that again and I'll throw you off the lookout cliff." He can't fool me, though; as he whips outmore scraps of cloth to act as blindfolds (I get one too, now!), Spondee calls him the same exact thing. And guess what? He _chuckles _and pats the runt on the head. Fucking crocodiles are ganging up on me. It's my first-ever encounter of discrimination in the pokémon world- it kind of pisses me off. "First deputy," I hear the krookodile call out, I'm taking them to Madame Maeva. If you catch wind of Stumble coming back from unclogging the water supply, I want you to drop whatever you're doing and tell me. He's been up there too damn long."

The crisp cold air feels nearly nauseates me with its freshness. I breathe in deeply, imagining the puffs of air flying out as I exhale, something that happens at these temperatures. The cold and I share a very love-hate kind of relationship, one that most closely resembles a swimmer in the ocean. One second they're allowed to float gracefully across the waves, and the next they suddenly find themselves fighting for their life. I've thrown out and rescinded more insults about the cold than I could ever count.

A firm grip holds onto my shoulder, leading me through the town I'm not allowed to see. I wonder what the area around me looks like. What kind of town do pokémon _really_ want to live in? Villages with huts, stone houses like the prisons... fucking skyscrapers? If they all turn out to be pencil-pushers and accountants I'll be more than a little disappointed.

Pardon the terrible fucking pun, but it turns out that the locals are real _treecko-_pushers. My back feels like I landed in a pit of fire, my feet much more resistant to the stinging snow than everywhere else. "You're six feet above where you should be, Big-City dweller! Where are your friends now?" A mocking voice laughs at me. I shoot back up, trying to knock off as much snow as I can- Plee hated the cold, and I assume that he had a good, health-related reason to avoid it whenever he could.

"Now what do you think you two are doing?" Pulp asks calmly. "They promised not to hurt a fly, so just step back and take a breather, alright?"

My head aches with subdued fury; the blindfold only adds to my increasing sense of urgency to knock whoever these pokémon are to the ground. "Now that," the same one who pushed me cries, "is a ton of pure, refined _shit!_ They just want that chance to take their disgusting selves over to the kids- targets they can take out!"

I hear Pulp shifting about, yet have no clue where Spondee went. If the kid's smart, he'd take a message from the angry voices and hide behind the krookodile. "Now wait a minute-"

"You're a real stupid sheriff," one of them accuses. "We didn't tell you about them so that you could give them a free-ticket in! We wanted you to kill them- throw the two miserable shits right off the cliff!" Something, whether or law or scruple, restricts the krookodile from responding. I think I even hear one jab a hand into his chest, poking his hard hide with something. My paranoia mingled with intuition says that it's the butt or handle of something dangerous. "Fucking yellow-bellied sheriff, never doing your real job-"

"Stop yelling at him!" Spondee commands. The stupid totodile is sticking his head into something very dangerous- the blindfold has made him way too brave. "P-Pulp is no coward, unlike you two! You were the ones too scared to approach us and do it yourself. Are all scrafty sp_ineless swine- urk!" _A normal hit wouldn't have caused too much pain, but I can only assume that one of the two pokémon hit him in his bruised neck. He fell down wheezing.

I knew their species, and I have a valid reason to call it 'self-defense'. Although the body's definitely new, I already know my way around it. Hours of watching Plee train, both in Kanto and in the force, has burnt his methods into my mind. Always tricks and maneuvers to deal with bullies, and _never_ anything lethal. Like me, he too hoped to one day go back and resume our journey- neck-twisting and rib-breaking moves aren't appreciated at most gyms.

This is probably the best first match-up I could hope for; scrafty, part fighting-type, would at least play into a fighting style I could maybe go toe-to-toe with. And their dark-type moves? Well, I am wearing a blindfold. Jumping forward, I throw my body into the left scraft as I swing my leg into the right, trying to ensure that no immediate counter-attack can come.

Fighting blind relied on having a bit more time to make decisions, and the scraft gives me that time mercifully. "You think you're hot shit, eh?" The left one cries, "well we'll beat that out of you!" Instead, I choose to beat the thought out of him. I twist my body, taking a firm center in between them, and snap my leg up. The right scrafty, already doubled over from a hard kick, finds another foot striking his head. The impact warms my foot, but the good feeling disappears as I soon find the scrafty I tackled pushing himself on me. We begin a slow stumble towards the ground, fighting to be the one who lands on top.

Originally, I had planned on making this a challenge by keeping the blindfold on. But, to my great shame, I _do_ have to peek in order to see what the scrafty holds. I adjust it quickly, and not a moment too soon. A gleaming knife-blade flies towards my abdomen. I knew now why Pulp kept his distance. Knives in a fistfight are like tacks in a messy room; someone always seems to end up having one sticking out of their foot. Grunting with determination, I drive an elbow into his head before the knife can reach me.

I miscalculated the length of my own arm somehow, and end up building a lot more momentum than I mean to. Pokémon are fucking _strong_, much stronger than I ever imagined. The blow rips him off of me and loosens his grip on the knife, send both skidding away noisily. Standing up, I inspect my body for stab wounds too numbed by the cold for me to feel. "Does it hurt?" I ask them while subtly slipping the blindfold back over my left eye, "to pick on someone your own size?"

The right scrafty kicks about snow as he struggles to his feet. "_What the hell, Pulp?" _He screams angrily, "_Are you going to do something?" _

Finally, the sheriff responds. "Prisoner, no. Bad prisoner." I want to laugh out loud, or maybe see the assailants' faces, but I don't want to ruin this. That was exhilarating. I wonder how long it would be before I got Spondee calling _me_ Buckshot Azrael.

As we start walking again, the little totodile whispers hoarsely, "is that all you know how to do?"

Answer: a long fucking time.


End file.
